It was 20 degrees warmer and a bit more sunny today.
Missouri State played Southern Illinois, and in the first inning batter Ryan Smith hit a home run to left center. Then Greg Lambert hit one. The next inning, Will Farmer hit one. 3-0, Salukis.
Hey, wait. I suppose I ought to be impartial, but this isn’t the story I crafted.
Starter Jordan Knutson recorded four outs before being lifted for Austin Knight.
It’s not that I expected Missouri State to lose the conference tournament on day two on their own field.
I suppose I’d still cover it.
Win or lose, I shouldn’t be here: I ought to be taking notes on Bakhtin’s Problems of Dostoevsky’s Poetics for comprehensive exams in three weeks instead of writing about college baseball.
Except, I ought to be writing about baseball because I told myself I would.
In spring 2014 I was so derailed by post-concussive syndrome that I could only listen to half an inning at a time. I’d hit my head on the ice months before.
But it got better. Two years later I finished my first semester in grad school, fighting wooziness and migraines from glaring classroom lightbulbs. I still wrote about baseball.
Today Jeremy Eierman drove in Jake Burger with a 2-run home run in the 4th to make it 3-2.
Close. Maybe there’s hope.
In the 6th the Bears tied it up, and I watched my skin turn pink under the burning sun. I’m not dealing with PCS anymore. I can sit in the sun again. I can run up the steps again. I can eat again. I can read again.
So I watched Burger hit again.
Three weeks. I have more work to do. Always more work to do. No one makes me. I insist. Look at the absurd booklist of American literature since 1900, and the ghastly form and theory of fiction list.
I study all the time. What if I fail?
And why spend countless hours writing about baseball?
Maybe because Jake spends countless hours hitting baseballs.
And I know I remembered those who cried with Aaron Meyer when he tore his patella tendon this season. I got choked up about Justin Paulsen playing in memory of his mother.
I couldn’t have written with that much empathy if I hadn’t hit my head. If I hadn’t hit my head I would not be writing about baseball. I wouldn’t have the courage.
I suppose there must be crying in this game.
Because I did it again.
by 
You’re a great writer! Thanks for sharing!
thank you!